I took the A train all the way up this Sunday. Past where the tourists get off, past where even the locals thin out, up to 190th Street where the elevator smells like old stone and takes you up into a different kind of New York.
A Sunday alone in Fort Tryon Park is my best-kept secret, and I'm only sharing it because I think the right people will understand and the wrong people won't bother going.
Up there, you can see the whole Hudson. The George Washington Bridge stretching to Jersey. The Cloisters tucked into the trees like somebody picked up a piece of France and set it down in Manhattan. And in October, the leaves are just starting to turn, so it's all rust and gold and the last stubborn green.
I brought a samosa from the Indian place near my apartment, wrapped it in foil, and ate it on a bench overlooking the river. Cold samosa on a park bench. Living the dream, truly.
A Sunday alone in Fort Tryon Park is the only time all week nobody needs anything from me. No client emails. No "can you just quickly" texts. No subway crowds. Just me, the wind, and a dog named — I asked — Biryani. His owner was very proud of that. As she should be.
I sat for a long time. I thought about how in Ahmedabad, being alone meant something was wrong. Here, being alone is a thing you protect, a thing you take the A train for forty minutes to find.
I used to feel lonely up there. Now I feel chosen. Like I picked this quiet instead of it picking me.
The city is loudest when you most need it to be quiet. So sometimes you go up, and up, until it finally hushes.
Love,